Winterfell

Mya Stone watched from afar as the daily court proceedings took place.

She moved about the room, filling empty cups with fresh wine. All the while, listening intently to topics being discussed.

Blue eyes found one the color of steel gray.

Mya held in a chuckle as the other woman swiftly cut off eye contact and continued to remain focused.

Her good friend, ever the visage of regal poise, refused to be distracted. Even if the old Lord Hornwood spoke with the same speed of a snail.

Once he finally finished droning on about the newest shipment of wheat from Highgarden, Bellegere glanced about the table.

"If that is all, I must make my daily rounds about Winter Town," she said, moving to stand.

The door to the great hall opened swiftly, revealing a guard carrying a scroll in his hands.

Bellegere sat forward in her seat, watching as the guard handed the scroll to her maester. She frowned as he whispered something in his ear.

Maester Luwin swiftly read over the letter, grimacing deeply at the words.

When he met her eye across the table, he could see her impatience.

"My lady...I am afraid grave news has come from the wall," Maester Luwin said solemnly. "It pertains to Jon Snow."

Mya Stone stopped in her tracks at his words.

She hesitantly glanced at her friend, watching her back straighten and the fine mask of a strong leader fall into place as she prepared herself for more pain.

Because there was always more pain.

"Speak it," Bellegere sighed.

As Maester Luwin began to divulge the betrayal and subsequent murder of her brother by his own brothers of the Night Watch, the lady fought to keep her composure.

Mya had to look away.

For, she knew this news was like an old, rusting dagger being twisted in her lady's heart once more.

Those around the table lowered their eyes as well.

Lady Bellegere Stark held her chin up against the burn in her dry eyes. She had cried so many tears in recent years, and she was thankful that, in this moment, there were no more to shed.

That night, when she was alone, she would have time to weep, but she could not appear weak in front of her people.

Grief be damned.

"Ser Blackwood, arrange a carriage and gather my things," she said calmly. "We leave for the wall on the morrow."

"Immediately, my lady," he said, bowing his head.

"Maester Luwin, send a raven informing them of my plans to bring my brother's body home."

"At once, my lady," he said somberly.

Mya watched Bellegere stand from the table and swiftly exit the room.

For a moment, their gazes met and a silent conversation was held.

She nodded slightly and reluctantly returned to her duties for the day.

When darkness fell, a knock sounded on the door of Bellegere's bedchamber.

The door opened, revealing Ser Blackwood.

"The Lady Mya Stone wishes to enter."

Bellegere simply nodded.

She sipped her wine as her friend entered the room. Her hands gripped the cup tightly as her resolve to remain strong began to dissolve under her knowing gaze.

"My lady," Mya murmured, inclining her head.

When the door closed, Bellegere stood up on shaky legs and Mya watched the well built walls of a warrior crumble before her.

Without her ever present eye patch, she could see the tears overflowing in both of her beautiful eyes.

Without speaking a word, she moved to her swiftly, embracing her.

Bellegere grasped her friend's dress tightly, holding onto her as if she were her anchor.

Mya winced as powerful sobs wracked her body. She caressed her hair and rocked with her in a soothing motion.

"I am here, Belle," she whispered hoarsely, stifling her own tears. "I am here with you."

Bellegere shook her head as grief swelled in her burning bosom.

"It never ends," she choked. "Again and again I am forced to lose those I love."

Mya held her tighter, listening.

"I trust the gods, but it seems they only wish for me to suffer endlessly," Bellegere said, gritting her teeth. "Mother, father, Lady Catelyn, Robb, and now Jon. One blow after another. Have I not sacrificed enough? Has my house not paid with their blood?"

She pulled away to look upon her friend's face. Her eyes were swollen and tears fell down slowly. Mya wiped them away gently, holding her pain stricken face in her hands.

"Will I ever find release from this grief...this curse," Bellegere asked her as if she had all of the answers.

Mya's own tears fell as she placed a soft, lingering kiss to her lady's forehead.

She did not have the answers.

All she had was a never ending desire to ease Bellegere's pain.

"Let us retire to bed, my lady," she said quietly, grasping her hand. "You have a long journey on the morrow."

All night, Mya lie awake holding her friend, reminiscing on the days before their world cracked open and darkness fell over House Stark.

If only they could return to their days spent running about the keep with Belle's siblings.

When they were all young, happy, and together.

When Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard watched from the balcony with smiles on their faces, and Robb pretended not to enjoy watching Bellegere and Mya spar.

Now, all they knew was grief, but at least they had one another to send the darkness away.

If only for a brief moment at a time.

The next morning, Bellegere visited the godswood before her journey.

She stood before the great heart tree where she and her father would often spend time together.

The eyes engraved into the tree had weeped crimson tears for so many years that they stained the roots beneath.

Glancing up, her eye traced the sprawling limbs of the tree with a grim expression.

For, they bore strange fruit.

The headless, decomposing bodies of several unnamed men hung from the branches by their wrists. On the ground lie a few whose bodies had been hanging so long that their hands detached from the rest of them.

Bellegere reminded herself that these men broke laws and some even betrayed her and her house.

She did what had to be done as the Lady of House Stark and a devout follower of the Old Gods.

Although her ritualistic methods were macabre, they gained her a new respect and admiration from the people of the north.

All northern folk remembered the tales told of the old ways. The glory days of the Kings of Winter.

When the corpses of those who displayed a lack of honor or betrayed the great House Stark littered the godswood, feeding the crows and the weirwood trees alike.

By bringing back the old ways, the northern folk blossomed with hope at the thought of House Stark returning to power and restoring the prosperity of the northern lands.

Crimson Thumb, the commonfolk called her.

A name she neither loved, nor hated.

For, she was merely a humble servant of the Old Gods that lurked within the roots of the godswood.

After all, it was her duty to bring offerings.

Beside her, Runa huffed, gaining her attention.

Bellegere smiled faintly and caressed her wolf's massive head. The beast rumbled in a manner that resembled a large feline, and leaned into her.

"What is it, my girl," she asked, ruffling her ears. "Are you hungry, again? You just ate."

When snow crunched behind them unexpectedly, Runa's hackles rose.

"Perhaps she is simply disturbed by your gardening techniques," Mya said, strolling toward them with a deep frown.

Bellegere hummed.

"Unlikely. Runa is a battle hardened warrior, just like her mother."

"Of course, my lady."

Mya slowly came to stand beside her in front of the heart tree.

Bellegere glanced at her friend, noticing the somber expression on her face.

"What brings you to my garden if you dislike it so much," she asked with furrowed brows.

Her friend was not a follower of the Old Gods, and never understood her rituals, nor the northern ways.

When they were children, she feared stepping foot in the godswood.

The faces brought her night terrors.

"My lady, early this morning Ser Blackwood asked an important question of me," Mya said, looking down. "I wish to inform you before he brings the matter to your attention himself."

Bellegere turned to her fully, her limbs stiff.

The other woman could not hold her gaze.

"He asked for my hand in marriage," she said quietly, wringing her hands.

"And soon...he will come to ask for your blessing."

All was quiet for a long moment as Bellegere pondered this shocking news.

Ser Royce Blackwood was her sworn protector, and a friend with whom she had fought several battles alongside her brother, Robb.

He was an honorable man.

Yet, this act unsettled her.

Bellegere gently touched her friend's shoulder, causing her to look up.

"Tell me, Mya," she asked in a serious tone. "Do you care for him as he cares for you?"

She swallowed thickly as her tongue became heavy in her mouth. She glanced at the weeping eyes of the heart tree.

She remembered being told that it was forbidden to lie in it's presence.

"I do," Mya said quietly.

Bellegere grasped her hand, squeezing it in her own as the sharp pieces of her heart scattered in her chest.

Mya could scarcely look into her eye. The heavy emotion on display weighed on her.

When Bellegere released her hand, the loss of contact was jarring.

"In that case, when Ser Blackwood asks me to bless your betrothal, I will do it with joy in my heart," she said, her voice hoarse and unsteady.

Mya bowed her head respectfully.

"Thank you, my lady."

Bellegere's hands flexed at her side, wanting to reach out and touch her out of reflex and habit.

Instead, she held her breath tightly coiled within and clasped them together.

"We must go now," Bellegere muttered, glancing at her wolf. "The journey to the wall is long and rough."

Mya nodded, forcing a smile to her lips.

"Safe travels, my lady," she said quietly. "I will pray for your safe return."

Bellegere's eye traced over her friend's features for a moment. Then, without another word, she turned to walk away.

Mya Stone watched from beneath the great heart tree as Runa followed behind her.

When they disappeared from sight, loneliness settled into her soul.

Now, even the ancient eyes of the Old Gods would not look upon her.

For, she committed an unforgivable act.

Mya Stone had spoken a lie on sacred ground.

When Lady Bellegere finally arrived at the wall, the spirit of mourning had settled deeply in her bosom.

As well as an indignant rage.

Upon entering Castle Black, all eyes rested upon her as if she had come to declare war.

She had half a mind to do just that, but there was a more pressing matter at hand.

And, unfortunately, the traitors were not present.

Only wildlings.

Bellegere's hard gaze traveled over the men that stood before her, waiting for her to speak.

A red woman stood at the very back of the group. She watched with eyes that seemed to pierce through to her soul.

When Bellegere finally spoke, her voice was strong and unwavering.

"Which one of you will take me to my brother," she demanded.

One man, gray of hair, with missing fingertips, stepped forward.

"I will, my lady," he said with a sympathetic gaze.

Bellegere nodded once and followed behind him.

Upon entering the room in which her brother was being kept, she pondered if anything could have prepared her for what she would see.

In the end, she realized nothing could.

Ser Blackwood stood at the door, unable to watch, as his charge tried and failed to keep herself together at the sight of her fallen brother.

He felt as though he was committing an unspeakable act of treason by witnessing her in this uncharacteristically vulnerable state.

When she eventually asked him to leave and begin questioning those who were present during the act of treachery, he was relieved.

Finally alone, she allowed herself to grieve the loss of another member of her dwindling family.

"Little brother," Bellegere whispered, grasping his cold hand tightly.

"What have they done to you?"

The last time she saw him, he was a young man.

Although he had always been the brooding black sheep of House Stark, even more so than herself, he was excited to take the black.

In his time here, it seemed he made a name for himself besides that of a bastard.

He became Commander of the Night's Watch, no less. A feat, she was certain, her brother did not attain easily.

Yet, he was betrayed by those he called family.

And for what?

Her eye traced the carnage on his body as righteous wrath reared it's head.

"They massacred you," she said through clenched teeth. "They butchered you."

Bellegere pressed her head to his shoulder as she silently asked the Old Gods for a miracle she was not sure she deserved.

"They will pay."

Perhaps, it was selfish to ask for his life in a state of mourning, but she could not bring herself to care.

"Only death can pay for life, Lady Stark," a woman's voice spoke behind her.

"You know this, as well as I."

Bellegere's eye opened and she slowly turned to face her intruder.

The red woman stood, hands clasped, in the darkest corner of the room. Though her eyes seemed to glow.

Bellegere wondered how she managed to enter the room without alerting her.

"In this, you are correct," she said, holding the woman's gaze. "Who are you?"

"I am Melisandre, my lady. A humble servant of R'hllor."

Bellegere hummed, examining the choker that adorned the woman's neck.

"Pray tell, what is a follower of the Red God doing in Westeros. Let alone, lurking around the wall?"

Melisandre smiled faintly, stepping forward into the light. Her red hair danced like a flame as it hung over her shoulders.

"I am here for the same purpose that you are, Lady Stark," she said truthfully. "I have come to return Jon Snow to life."

Bellegere stared at her silently with unwavering intensity in her one eyed gaze.

The red woman admired the power that seemed to surround this young lady like a shroud. This power was a heavy burden that she bore with a grace many could not muster.

It was intriguing.

"My purpose for coming here is one born of love and duty to my brother. Yours is one of selfish desire and probably some plot you hope might gain you the favor of your god. Do not compare the two," she said, coldly.

Melisandre stepped closer, unmoved by her tone.

"Fair point," she conceded. "Still, the truth remains that Jon Snow cannot return to this plane without the death of another. R'hllor requires this, just as your Old Gods do. Although, it seems your gods have not been kind to you as of late."

Bellegere's jaw flexed.

"I have come to offer you my talents and bring your brother back to life."

The distrust on the younger woman's face was scathingly obvious.

"In exchange for what?"

Melisandre inclined her head.

"Your frightening, unadulterated faith in R'hllor," she said, leaning forward.

"I feel the flame burning bright within you. If only you would set that fire on the correct path, you would see that R'hllor rewards those with your level of faith. Unlike the Old Gods."

A sardonic smile pulled at Bellegere's lips and the red woman was fascinated.

"I do not have faith. I have trust, justified by evidence. And my trust, along with my soul, belongs to the Old Gods," Bellegere said, slowly moving closer to her.

"Even R'hllor could not fathom the fire with which that trust burns."

Melisandre stood her ground as the young Stark looked down upon her with an overbearing gaze.

"Thank you for your offer, Melisandre, but I must decline," Bellegere continued with a stern tone.

"I am my brother's keeper. It is solely my duty to bring him back from the claws of death, and my gods will look upon me with favor, as ever."

A long silence reigned before the red woman bowed her head to the wolf.

"As you wish, Lady Stark."

When Melisandre left the room, she could feel the gaze of a hundred eyes on her.

All of them combined into one.

It was then that she remembered a dream that woke her from her slumber.

A dream that caused her to leave Stannis Baratheon's company.

A dream that returned that very night.

Once again, Melisandre dreamt of a black wolf walking across a bed of freshly packed snow, silently watched by the weeping eyes of the weirwood trees.

Each giant paw print left behind was stained crimson as it stalked forward with grace and deadly poise. The hairs on the back of it's neck stood at a point.

A weirwood crown was grasped in the wolf's jaw, dripping with what she assumed was blood.

One of her eyes was eternally shut and the other was as silver as the blade of a valyrian steel sword, but both shed tears of crimson.

When the wolf finally turned it's wise gaze upon her, Melisandre awakened alone in her bedchambers, shivering with cold sweats.

She gasped in air as she returned to reality, trying to understand who R'hllor was asking her to follow.

For, she had believed it to be Jon Snow.

The red woman lit a fire and gazed into it for hours, asking for guidance from her god.

When, finally, one steel gray eye revealed itself in the dancing flame, Melisandre finished.

Knowing.